


Lozenges

by Zingiber



Series: Five and One [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Also Lots of Vomiting, Angst and Humor, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Offscreen Violence, Romance, Sickfic, So many tropes, Tropes, and hand-holding, offscreen sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12832935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zingiber/pseuds/Zingiber
Summary: Sherlock and John can both be careless with their health.  Five times John tended to an ill Sherlock, and one time Sherlock tended to John.





	Lozenges

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlock Challenge November 2017 - the prompt was "illness." So, being a lover of tropes and clichés, I decided to write the trope-iest 5+1 fic possible. 
> 
> This is un-Betaed and un-Britpicked, and edited in a very slapdash manner. If you spot a mistake, please let me know so I can correct it. :)
> 
> I’m Zingiberis on Tumblr.

 

1.

 

It starts – as it so often does – with a case.

And _what_ a case it is, with a pair of madmen and a dead woman tucked away in a cottage in the Cornish countryside, with the sky slate gray and the land jutting in peaks and crags and the sea a seething, misty veil in the distance.  A salty breeze plucks at John’s hair, tosses strands across his brow, and Sherlock’s hands itch to smooth them back into place.  He takes to keeping them in his pockets, keeping them in check.

In the sterile, white hospital room, one of the mad brothers alternates between raving and singing in his bed, eyes rolling as Sherlock and John try to untangle clues from the gibberish.  John stands at Sherlock’s side, arms crossed and lips pursed. 

“This is pointless,” he mutters, when Tregannis the elder has subsided into a fit of giggling.  “He’s too far gone to be of any use.”

“The devil!” Tregannis cackles.  “The devil!  At the window!”

But something in his babbling snags Sherlock’s attention like a hook in a fish’s lip.  They go back to the cottage for a second look, ignoring the specter of the dead woman found just that morning, face white and eyes wide in a mask of permanent terror.  As John rifles around in another room, Sherlock goes to the kitchen window and peers out into the inky gloom.  He can see no devil cavorting on the hills, but he does see a smear of ash on the windowsill.  He scoops a pile the size of a thimble into a pilfered evidence bag and stuffs it in his pocket before John can join him. 

“Anything?” John asks, glancing at Sherlock and then out the window.  The warm, cozy light of the kitchen halos him in an orange glow, limns his silvery hair with honeyed gold.  Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets, feels the evidence bag crinkle against his fingertips. 

“Maybe,” he says.

Later, ensconced in the solitude of their adjoining hotel rooms – John wasn’t keen on more knowing looks, more insinuating smirks, John was _appalled_ – Sherlock drags a wooden stool to the windowsill and perches, placing a candle and the evidence bag on the sill.  The bag sags sideways, its contents flouring the inside.  Harmless, inert.  Sherlock knows ash.

Until, very abruptly, he doesn’t.  He lights the candle and tips the pile of ash onto a spoon, and is carefully, carefully sifting the powder into the flame when it erupts in a mushroom of black, putrid smoke, filling the room with preternatural speed, choking off his gasp and clotting his nose and throat with blistering agony.  Sherlock throws himself back, his mind whirling with visceral terror – the terror of being dragged into deep, cold waters, of feeling your blood starve without oxygen.  He trips over the chair and crashes to the floor, dragging in a breath to cry out for John, gagging on the smoke. 

There’s a bang like a gunshot as the door between their rooms flies open, bounces off the wall.  There’s a distorted shout and John’s face is suddenly above his own, eyes wide and streaming.  John races past him, throws open the window, and races back.  Seizes Sherlock under the arms and drags him bodily from the room. 

An incessant beeping is ringing through the building, ear-piercingly loud.  Visions dance in front of Sherlock’s eyes:  the black smoke swirling, congealing into a madman with black eyes, sloshing pool water, a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes and a Walther PPK pointed at his heart.  Sherlock screams and thrashes in John’s grip, but John only bellows “Stop fucking _fighting!_ ” and keeps dragging him. 

And then:  the breeze on his face, blessedly cool and fresh.  Sherlock gags and rolls onto his side.  Blades of grass tickle his cheek and crumple under his palms as he finds his knees, body wracking as he retches.  John’s hands grip his shoulders, easing him onto his back, away from the mess.  His face looms into Sherlock’s view. 

“Sherlock!”  John’s voice is high and thin.  “Sherlock, what the hell—”

“Ash,” Sherlock says, or tries to say.  The word emerges a croak.  His throat feels like it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper.  “The ash.  I’ve…”  He can’t speak anymore – he tries to swallow spit, gags.  Feels the need to vomit again rising.  “I’ve solved it.”

John claps one hand to his brow and sighs, seeming to wilt.  “Fucking hell, Sherlock.  If you could try not to kill yourself, I’d—I would really appreciate it.”

Sherlock utters something between a wheeze and a chuckle.  He’s distantly aware of sirens clanging and lights flashing on the periphery of his vision.  Kneeling beside him, John drops his hand to Sherlock’s, squeezing tightly. 

Later, as he recovers from the incident with the Devil’s Foot root in hospital, John waits at his side.  His hands are always occupied – always holding a book, or fiddling with his mobile, or pecking sluggishly at his laptop.  Sherlock’s own hands rest on his thighs, above the covers.  They feel strangely cold.

He’s to be discharged at the end of the day, but the doctors want to monitor him for a few hours more.  Ridiculous – he has a perfectly good doctor to look after him.  But John had agreed with them, fixing Sherlock with a steely-eyed look that brooked no argument.  Resigned to his fate, Sherlock slips into a doze, planning to spend the last hours of his incarceration in oblivion. 

Until the warm, familiar weight of John’s palm settles over one of Sherlock’s hands, making him start.  His eyes fly open and he stares at John, who draws back like he’s been burned.

“I—sorry,” says John.  “I didn’t think—”

“My hand is cold,” Sherlock blurts out. 

Silence sits heavy in the air between them, thick and heavy not with the clotting poison of the Devil’s Foot, but with a tension Sherlock can’t quite place.  Then John’s mouth quirks up at the corners and he scoots his chair forward a few inches.  Propping his book open one-handed, he settles his other hand on Sherlock’s and resumes reading.  His eyes pantomime skimming over the page, but the smile on his lips doesn’t waver.

And Sherlock is smiling too – probably grinning like a loon, his face flushed hot.  He lies back and lets his eyes slip shut, savoring the warmth bleeding between their joined hands. 

 

2.

 

Just before the counterfeiter’s goons dump him into the Thames, hands and feet bound, Sherlock has the presence of mind to think, _John will be very cross._

And then the cold, dark waters envelope him, sucking at the cinderblocks tied to his feet and punching the breath from his lungs with a convulsive gasp.  Water fills his mouth and nose, closes over his head, foul and icy.  He wriggles frantically, but the cords were tied with care, and his hands are cinched so tightly behind his back his elbows almost touch.  As he feels the blocks tied to his feet settle in the muck, twisting his ankles, he tries to muster a scrap of rationality.  Fails. 

Sherlock tips his face up toward the light dancing on the surface of the Thames – the place his aspiring murderers chose isn’t deep, but it’s deep enough.  It seems shrewdly cruel that he should die like this – drowned with air within arm’s reach – but he doubts the goons were clever enough to be so spiteful. 

Lungs burning, panic worming into his mind, Sherlock wriggles in his bonds.  Every passing moment in the cold water saps the strength from his muscles, but an instinctual drive has possessed him, desperate for air, for _life_.  His animal mind takes over, narrow-minded with the desperation that drives trapped foxes to gnaw through their own legs for freedom.  White stars blot out his vision.

There’s a sudden rushing in his ears; for a moment, Sherlock thinks it’s his heartbeat, thudding behind his temples as it races to the bursting point.  But then he feels a disturbance in the water near him, and then hands are grasping at his shoulders, at his waist, down to his feet.  Fingers brush the bonds on his feet and draw back as if repulsed.  Arms wind around Sherlock’s midsection, powerful and sure. 

The cinderblocks drag painfully at Sherlock’s ankles as he is lifted toward the surface, but he doesn’t care one whit about that – all he can think of is the rush of air as they break the surface, the almost painful stretch of his lungs as he gasps and sputters.

“Don’t move,” John says through chattering teeth.  Sherlock couldn’t be contrary if he wanted to – he’s too drained to do anything more than sag against John, head lolling as they near the bank.  Sherlock blinks, dazed, and registers figures milling along the pavement:  Lestrade emerging from a car, bellowing and gesturing at Sherlock and John in the river. 

Sherlock leans against John as their feet run into the muck of the bank.  When the water is only lapping at their ankles, John bids Sherlock to be still and sets to the cords around his wrists.  Sherlock winces as his wrists are freed, rolling his shoulders as pain claws at the strained joints. 

“Can you sit?” John asks, gently, and Sherlock half-slumps, half-falls on his arse in the muck, knees drawn up, feet braced against the cinderblocks.  The skin of his ankles is red and chafed when the cords come away.  John’s eyes are dark.  “Shit.”

“S’fine,” Sherlock says, voice quavering.  Cold seeps into his skin, burrows into the marrow of his bones.  His clothes are plastered to his skin, offering little protection against the chill air. John is in much the same state as he is.  “We m-might need b-blankets.”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment, then barks a shivery, disbelieving laugh.  “Y-yeah.  Shock blankets, maybe.  Th-that’ll s-s-sort us right out.”

After all is said and done, though – after Sherlock informs Lestrade about the counterfeiters, he and John spend an interminable, awkward cab ride back to Baker Street, and hobble on numb legs up the stairs to 221B – they need a fair bit more than blankets to chase away the cold.  And the stink of the Thames. 

John insists that Sherlock take the first shower, pressing a hand to the small of his back to push him toward the bathroom.  Sherlock’s stomach flutters as he closes the door behind him and peels off his sodden clothes.  With shaking fingers, he pulls up the diverter and twists the lever.  The water is almost scalding.  Steam fills the room, fogs the frosted glass.  If John were in his bedroom and not the hallway, he might catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s naked silhouette. 

If— _if_.

 _Bloody fool, you are,_ he thinks to himself.

For all their caution – despite the shower and the tea and John turning up the heat in the flat a generous few degrees – Sherlock goes to bed that night with an itch in the back of his throat and wakes with what appears to be the plague. 

“Bad luck,” says John, passing Sherlock a cup of tea mixed with honey.  Scowling, Sherlock accepts the gift and takes a sip.  With his skin sweat-slick, snot dripping down to his chin, and a cough that would put a consumptive Victorian lady to shame, Sherlock is in no mood to be patronized.  It doesn’t help that John appears to be fit as a fiddle. 

“S’nod fair,” he mutters, congestion softening his consonants into mush.  “Why did’n you ged sig?”

John shrugs.  “My immune system is tougher.  I work around sick people for a living, after all.”

Sherlock grumbles mutinously and sips his tea.  The honey soothes his throat and curls warm and golden in the pit of his stomach.  Or perhaps that’s just the way John is looking at him:  soft and fond. 

“Whad?” he asks, voice betrayed by a tremble. 

“Nothing,” says John, then shakes his head.  Licks his lips.  “Well, it’s just.  I’m just glad you’re okay, I suppose.”  His expression sobers.  “You can’t leave me in the dark anymore, Sherlock.  If I’d arrived a few minutes later, you would have drowned.”

“I tegsted you,” Sherlock protests.

“Ye-es,” says John, “ _after_ you found the counterfeiter’s hideout.  By then, it was almost too late for me to help.”  An edge of anger cuts into his tone.  “When I saw those, those _fucking bastards_ throw you in the water…”

John trails off and looks helplessly at Sherlock.  Sherlock hesitates, feeling as though he is standing on the edge of a precipice.  His hands are shaking, tea sloshing in its cup.  Sherlock thinks of John’s hands in the hospital in Cornwall, thinks of John’s hands questing over his body as he searched for the cords binding him.  Summoning all his courage, he sets his cup down on the nightstand beside his bed and reaches for John. 

For an instant, John’s eyes widen, flashing with surprise.  Sherlock’s fingers curl back; he’s certain he’s made a mistake.  But John’s hands dart out to meet his, fingers intertwining, palms pressing together.  He sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, making the mattress creak as he shifts close.  He looks at Sherlock, and there’s a little fear and a wealth of courage in those blue eyes. 

“Sherlock,” he says, a little frantically, “I want… I want—”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbles, “yes, I…”

He has less than a second to be self-conscious about his flushed face and dripping nose before John is bringing his face close to Sherlock’s, brushing their lips together.  The touch lingers, then retreats with a little gust of air, as if John has exercised considerable restraint to pull himself back.  They stare at each other for a long, charged moment.

And then Sherlock is winding his fingers through John’s short, silk-fine hair and dragging him back in, slotting their mouths together with a hunger that startles them both.  John gives a little gasp and runs his hands up Sherlock’s chest, fisting in the lapels of his dressing gown.  His lips part and Sherlock follows suit, tilting his head and deepening the kiss, feeling his heart kick into a sprint.  He has a fever—he’s feverish—he _wants_.

They break apart, their breathing ragged in the quiet air.  Sherlock rubs one of John’s cheekbones, memorizing the shape and feel of him.  John’s skin is soft and smooth under the pad of his thumb.  He wraps the sensation with great care and stores it in a safe, secret part of his Mind Palace. 

“You,” John pants, “you want…?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock.  “You.”

 

-

 

John’s immune system may be tougher than Sherlock’s, but after a good deal of snogging with a man who nearly took a terminal bath in the Thames, it caves like a house of cards.  John and Sherlock spend the next week with sweats and chills and runny noses, miserable and so, so happy.

 

3.

 

Sherlock downs his fifth ( _Sixth?_ ) shot of the evening and looks blearily around the nightclub.  “John,” he slurs.  “Joooooohn.  John.  Where’re you?”

“Here!” John calls, pushing through the crowd to reach him.  The strobing lights of the nightclub paint him in swathes of blue and white.  His brow gleams with sweat as he shoves a drunk young man aside and plasters himself to Sherlock’s side.  “Jesus.  This is a madhouse!”

Sherlock winds his arms around John’s shoulders and cants his hips, feeling his clothed, hardening cock press against the placket of John’s trousers.  John bites his lip, face flushing.  His mouth moves, words lost in the thumping, throbbing din of techno music blaring through the dark hall.  Sherlock reads his lips: an admonishment, _we’re in public, for God’s sake,_ but John’s eyes say something else entirely.  He thrusts his hips gently, safe in the knowledge that the crush of bodies will conceal them. 

It’s potent, being with John.  Heady and sweet like wine, electrifying like cocaine.  As lulling and sensual as morphine. 

Sherlock presses his face to the crook of John’s neck, rakes his teeth over the pulse-point just below his ear.  John shudders in his arms, and Sherlock’s mind sprints after his racing heartbeat, fantasies tangling with memories:  of John shaking beneath him, chest rising and falling with the staccato drumbeat of his breathing, of John cursing and whimpering as Sherlock pushes in deep. 

“Want you,” he whispers in John’s ear.  “God, I want you.”

John’s breath hitches.  Somehow, they’ve carved out a pocket of quiet amidst the chaos, and his voice is low when he says, “God, Sherlock, I—me, too.  I want… but.  The case.”

“Oh.”  Sherlock is jarred by the force of the reminder.  They wouldn’t be here if not for the fact that they are staking out a potential suspect: the bartender, possibly a murderer if the third lever handle of the taps squeaks when pulled.  Sherlock cranes his neck to glimpse the bar, catching site of their suspect.  He’s a large, sinewy man, completely bald with both arms sleeved in tattoos. 

“That’s’m, John,” Sherlock says, nodding toward the bar.  “That’s our man.”

“Let’s go, then.”  John pauses, regards Sherlock dubiously.  “Think you can manage it?  You seem a bit…”

“Tipsy?”

“Ah, no.  Sloshed.”

Sherlock blinks slowly and shakes his head.  Tries to remember why he thought it was a good idea to drink during a stakeout – something about blending in, he supposes.  The bartender has sharp eyes.  A necessary precaution.  “I’ll be perf… perfeg… I’ll be _fine,_ John.”

John looks unconvinced, but he only shrugs.  “Right.  Stay behind me.”  He pats the pocket of his coat, where a bulge tells Sherlock he has brought his Sig.  “Got it?”

“Yessir,” Sherlock says, tipping John a mock salute. 

John rolls his eyes.  “Right.”  He nods toward the bar.  “Let’s crack on, then.”

The case ends in a spectacular chase as the bartender, spotting John and Sherlock’s approach and putting two and two together, dashes into the kitchen and through a door in the back.  For a man so large, he is surprisingly fast.  John is immediately in pursuit, darting around the bar and through the door after him.  Sherlock staggers to the bar, considers vaulting over it with his trademark dramatic elegance, and decides he’s too drunk for that feat.  He follows John and the bartender out the back door.

They chase him for a few blocks before John, who has been steadily gaining the entire time, launches himself at the bigger man with all the vicious power of a former rugby player.  The bartender topples onto the pavement, but his struggle is short-lived.  John wrenches one meaty arm behind the man’s back, twisting the wrist until he blubbers for mercy.  In John's other hand, the Sig gleams in the moonlight.

“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” he growls.  Watching him, _hearing_ him, Sherlock’s stomach does a nimble little flip.  His cock thickens in his trousers, but the spell is broken when John turns to him, eyes serious.  “Ring Lestrade, will you?  I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

Sherlock obliges, fingers fumbling over his mobile screen.  He accidentally calls a Lithuanian restaurant before hanging up and finding _Lestrade_ above it on the contact list.  The mobile trills twice before he picks up.

“You’ve found something?” he asks without preamble.

“Yessssss,” Sherlock slurs.  The bartender makes a renewed struggle and John, looking bored, twitches his hand around his wrist.  The bartender subsides with a moan and Sherlock can’t help it, really he can’t – he giggles.

“Sherlock?”  Lestrade’s voice is wary.  “Are you…”

“Canyouhurryup _please_?” Sherlock says with the speed of a Gatling gun, suddenly desperate to get back to the flat, to get John into bed.  “Wanna shag John into next week.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lestrade mutters.  Then, “Fine!  Fine.  Just sit tight and don’t do anything that’ll get you written up for public indecency.  Give me the address.”

Sherlock does, and Lestrade rings off without a word.  He must have sensed Sherlock’s waning interest in the case, because NSY cars arrive with lights flashing after what feel like mere minutes, though it could have been longer.  Sherlock is quite drunk, and staring at John’s flexing muscles as he restrains the bartender could, conceivably, make him lose track of time. 

Once the bartender is bundled off in handcuffs, Sherlock snags John’s hand before they can be roped into the tedium of paperwork.  He leads John to the street and waves frantically at passing cabs until one deigns to stop. 

(Sherlock tries to start something in the cab, insinuating his fingers under the hem of John’s shirt, splaying his palms against warm skin as he tries to wind his way into John’s lap.  But John won’t have it – his hands encircle Sherlock’s wrists, pleading decorum, _we’ll get thrown out, you mad bastard._   The strength and command in those hands sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine.)

They manage to arrive at the flat without scandalizing anyone, though Sherlock suspects not much would scandalize a seasoned London cab driver.  He doesn’t care; he drags John through the front door, up the seventeen stairs to 221B, and into the bedroom. 

Sherlock only realizes his mistake when he wakes the next morning, head pounding.  It’s as if a tiny man with a mallet has been trapped in his skull and is determined to break free.  His tongue feels like leather.  There are other aches in his body – not unpleasant ones – but they’re drowned out by the incessant _th-thump, th-thump_ of the mallet man.  Sherlock cracks his eyes open and grimaces as sunlight spears his retinas.  Groaning, he turns on his side, reaching—and finding his target gone.  Bracing himself, he opens his eyes.  The other side of the bed is empty. 

Sherlock rises, levers his legs off the bed, stands.  And promptly falls on his arse. 

He utters a rather undignified yelp as he goes down, banging his tailbone against the floorboards and sprawling on his back.  The room spins in a bilious carousel.

Footsteps approach the doorway.  “Sherlock?  Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock groans by way of reply.  The door swings open and John spins into his field of vision like a planet orbiting the sun.  Or the sun orbiting a planet.  Sherlock’s not quite certain which one it is. 

“Sherlock!”  John kneels, pressing one hand to Sherlock’s clammy brow.  His voice is like an ice pick piercing Sherlock’s eardrums.  “What—”

“Stop shouting,” Sherlock moans.  “For God’s sake, John…”

“Oh, Sherlock.  You’re hung over.”

“Brilliant deduction, John,” Sherlock snipes.  “You’ll make a consulting detective yet.”

“There’s no need to get tetchy,” says John mildly.  “Besides, you couldn’t bear to share the spotlight.  I’m happy to be your blogger.”

“I _hate_ this.”

John bites his lip, eyes crinkling at the corners with suppressed mirth.  “Come on.”  Crouching, he hooks his hands beneath Sherlock’s arms.  “Up you go.”

John may be small, but he’s surprisingly strong, and he levers Sherlock to his feet with a little grunt of effort.  Sherlock stumbles, draping himself over John as they stagger to the loo.

“You’re _enjoying_ this,” Sherlock accuses.

“No,” protests John.  “No, I’m really not.”

“You’re laughing at me!”

“I am _not._   Now, stop whining and get to the toilet before you—”

As if summoned by John’s ill omen, bile rushes up Sherlock’s throat and his entire body clamps down on a twist of sudden, spiking nausea.  It is only by some stroke of luck that they reach the loo in time for him to retch into the toilet, John’s hand rubbing a slow circle between his shoulder blades as he shakes and shakes.

“There, there,” he murmurs.  “Oh, love…”

Sherlock stiffens, wipes a line of bile off his chin.  Looks up at John, eyes wide.  “You…”  He trials off, blinking.  “What did—”

“I’m sorry,” John says in a rush.  “I only—I was only thinking—well, honestly, I’ve been thinking it for a long time and it.  Slipped out?  I hope you don’t mind.”  He rubs the back of his neck:  an endearing gesture, youthful and abashed.  His cheeks are flushed.  “If you don’t like… I don’t have to—”

“No,” Sherlock interjects.  “No, it’s… fine.”

“Oh.”  John smiles hesitantly.  “You… like it?”

Sherlock licks his lips.  “It’s… tolerable.”

“Tolerable,” John echoes.  He’s still smiling.  “Right.”

“Right,” Sherlock parrots.

Bile churns in his belly and he winces, turning back to the toilet bowl.  Summoning an imperious tone, he says, “Keep rubbing my back.  It helps.”

A low, gentle chuckle.  “’Course, love.”

 

4.

 

John wants to take Sherlock out on a date.

“No, you ponce, not ‘the anniversary of the day Sherlock Holmes was almost drowned in the Thames,’” says John, swatting his shoulder before setting a cup of tea beside Sherlock’s elbow.  His hand lingers, smooths into a caress as he crosses to his side of the table.  Setting down his own steaming cup, he opens his laptop and pecks at the keys with his usual lumbering fervor.  “I prefer ‘the anniversary of the day Sherlock Holmes stuck his tongue far enough down John Watson’s throat to give him the mother of all colds.’”

“Bit wordy.  Can’t we just call it ‘Inoculation Day’ and be done with it?”

John flicks his eyes up from the screen and holds Sherlock’s gaze.  “Call it whatever you like, love.  But I’m taking you out tonight, so don’t start any experiments after noon, all right?”

Sherlock hums noncommittally and turns the page on the article he’s been perusing.  He supposes oncolytic virotherapy can wait – the incubation times alone are daunting, and it isn’t his field of expertise anyway.

“Where are we going?” he asks. 

John studies his laptop screen in an offhand manner.  “Thought I’d take you to Angelo’s.  Nice dinner, candles – you know.  The works.”

“Is that all?”

“Mmm, yeah,” says John.  Then, in a tone he might use when discussing the weather, he adds, “I’d like to skip the pretense, if it’s all the same to you, and just take you back to the flat after dinner.  Take my time taking you apart.”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.  “Oh?”

“Yep,” says John, still studying the screen.  “I’d like to suck you for a while, put my fingers in you – get you nice and ready for me.  Maybe use my tongue, too.  Then, well, you know.  Shag you into the mattress.  See if I can make you scream a little.”  He looks up from the screen, innocent expression belied by a mischievous gleam in his eyes.  “If you’re amenable, that is.”

“I…”  Sherlock trails off, suddenly parched.  He takes a steaming gulp of tea, winces as his throat smarts.  “I might be,” he rasps.

“Lovely.”  John closes the laptop with a _click_ of finality and stands.  Sherlock can see his cock pressing at the zip of his jeans, nudging out the denim.  He licks his lips.

“Or,” says Sherlock, “we could skip dinner and go straight to the bedroom.”

John grins devilishly and shakes his head.  “Sorry, love.  Dinner first.  I am a romantic at heart.”

Sherlock manages to survive the rest of the day without spontaneously combusting from lust, but it’s no easy feat.  He gets himself worked up a few times fantasizing about John’s fingers, John’s mouth, John’s cock stretching him open, whispering along the fine line between pain and pleasure.  The past year has been something of a master class on sex for Sherlock, whose experience before John was sporadic, hazy with morphine or jittery with cocaine.  Prior to the day John dragged him out of the Thames, prior to _I want… I want—_  

Since John, though – since John, Sherlock’s standards have been revised.  Drastically.  They’ve had practically every kind of sex imaginable:  tender and romantic, frantic and needing, _no, don’t bother taking off your trousers, I can’t wait,_ and _hmm, good morning, love_.  Even the dull, vanilla sex they use as a standby when John is knackered or Sherlock can’t quite get out of his own head has its charms. 

Sherlock loves John.  Sometimes he’s terrified by how much he loves John, but there it is.  Irrefutable.

They dress up and go to Angelo’s, holding hands in the cab, holding hands over the table as Angelo himself stops by with candles and a fond smile, holding hands as they order dessert.  Sherlock’s downfall is his own unreliable appetite; he hasn’t eaten all day, preoccupied with experiments and preoccupied by the prospect of returning to the flat after dinner.  His fettucine alfredo is rich and filling, the wine is plentiful, and the tiramisu he polishes off at the end is a behemoth of heavy whipping cream and mascarpone cheese.  All delicious, but it congeals in Sherlock’s stomach like a stone. 

John notices, of course.  As they leave the restaurant hand-in-hand, he narrows his eyes at Sherlock. 

“Are you all right?” he asks.  “You look a bit peaky.”

“M’fine,” Sherlock mumbles.  His stomach churns in defiance and he winces, feeling his gorge rise. 

But, in addition to being a moderately clever man, John is also a doctor.  He untangles his fingers from Sherlock’s and stops on the pavement, turning Sherlock’s face to his. 

“Your color isn’t looking so good.  Is it your stomach?  Something you ate?”

Sherlock considers lying; he doesn’t want to put John’s plans in jeopardy.  But his stomach clenches and he sways, feeling wine and clotting cream slosh in his belly.  His throat clamps around a truly undignified belch. 

“Right,” John mutters.  He steers Sherlock to a bench and sits him down.  “Can you wait while I get a cab?  And if you need to, you know…” He glances meaningfully over Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock turns, sees a bin standing stoutly beside a lamppost.  “Nothing to be ashamed of.  Better out that end than the other.”

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” Sherlock grouses, disgusted.  “You truly are a romantic, John.” 

John leans over, presses a feather-light kiss to his brow, and stalks toward the curb to hail a cab.  Propping his elbows on his knees, Sherlock takes steadying breaths through his nose, glad for the cool night air.  Closing his eyes, he lets the cacophony of London enfold him.  The chatter of people and the rush of cars cradle him in a blanket of white noise.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is close.  “I’ve got a cab.  Let’s go, love.”

They pass the cab ride back to Baker Street with fingers entwined.  Sherlock’s stomach begins to settle, but each lurch of the cab makes him grit his teeth and grip John’s hand more tightly.  John is quiet, running his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles every few minutes. 

When they arrive at the flat, John pays the fare and ushers Sherlock out of the cab.  Sherlock lets himself be led, hating his frailty but secretly pleased by the pressure of John’s hand at the small of his back.  Once they ascend the stairs and the door of 221B closes behind them, Sherlock sheds his coat, letting it puddle on the floor. 

“I believe you promised to shag me into the mattress,” he says, aiming for a coy tone and striking somewhere around “ailing pillock.”  His stomach roils in protest.

John smiles pityingly at him.  “I think we’ll have to postpone that plan.  No, it’s a cuppa and an early night for you.”

“I’m _fine_!” Sherlock cries petulantly.  “You can’t say filthy things about putting your fingers and your tongue in my arse and then not _deliver_!”

John is undeterred.  “Come on.”  Taking Sherlock’s arm, he leads him across the sitting room, stopping at the threshold of the bedroom.  Sherlock’s heart flutters and he looks to John, who only shakes his head.  “Sorry, love, but no.  Put on something comfortable and meet me out here, yeah?”

Sherlock frowns and totters into the bedroom, hearing John’s footsteps retreat.  For a second, he considers one last attempt at seduction: stripping down to the skin and sauntering into the sitting room with a demure line about John helping him get comfortable.  But apparently there’s a positive feedback loop wired between his libido and his nausea, because the thought of coaxing John into a shag is accompanied by a ripple of queasiness.  Resigned to a dull evening, Sherlock tugs off his trousers, jacket, and button-up, then wanders to the hamper.

He emerges from the bedroom moments later, clad in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and his dressing gown.  John is sitting on the sofa, a paperback in hand.  At the soft creak of Sherlock’s footsteps on the floorboards, John raises his eyes with a little smile. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, patting the spot on the sofa beside him. 

Sherlock crosses the room, feeling as if a thread is wound around his ribs, binding him to John.  When he sits, John maneuvers him to lie down on his side.  Sherlock rests his head on John’s thigh and closes his eyes with a sigh.  He feels John’s fingers thread through his curls, skate down his chest, ruck up the t-shirt.  His palm presses to the flat expanse of Sherlock’s belly, slowly stroking and kneading.  The pressure helps; the knot of nausea uncoils. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums.

“Okay?” John murmurs.

“S’nice.”

“Good.  That’s good.”  John is silent for a moment, rubbing Sherlock’s stomach, fingertips trailing to the waistband of the sweatpants, skirting back.  Sherlock’s nerves are tingling. 

“You can,” he mumbles, “if you want.”

“I’m fine,” John says.  “This is fine.”

And it _is,_ really.  It is fine.  The pressure of John’s hand increases, evens out, retreats with slow, methodical purpose.  Warmth suffuses Sherlock’s veins, as sweet and thick as honey.  There’s an intimacy to this act, he realizes – different than sex, of course, but no less vulnerable or trusting.  The tension unspools from his body, leaving him pliant. 

“Happy anniversary, John,” he mumbles.  He can feel sleep closing in, creeping into the periphery of his thoughts.

John’s hand drifts to his chest, rests over his beating heart.  “Happy anniversary, love.”

 

5.

 

It’s not a game anymore. 

It’s a monstrosity, a trail of blood slicking through all the foulest scum humanity has to offer.  It’s a horror that cuts to the core of Sherlock, no matter how indifferent he tries to appear.

It – the case, the abomination – began with a pretty brunette girl sitting on the wooden stool between John and Sherlock, head held high, back straight, hands clasped in her lap.

“My name is Lucy Ferrier,” she had said.  “And I… I think I’m being stalked.”

Ms. Ferrier went on to explain that, for the past week leaving classes at uni, she had noticed a strange man following her.  Not a student, for he carried no bookbag and looked well into his fifties. 

“There aren’t many older students,” she explained.  “So I found out right away that he wasn’t one.  Every day, he would show up just as I left lecture.  Never got close, of course, but he followed me to the Tube station and no further.  Usually.”

“Usually?” said Sherlock.

Lucy bit her lip.  “Once, he… he got on the Tube.  Same carriage as me.  He stood behind me, so I tried to ignore him, but…”  She shuddered, looked down at her clenched fists.  “He… smelled my hair.  I got off three stops early to get away from him.”

“Have you told anyone else?” asked John.  “Campus security?”

“Yeah.  They said they’d keep an eye out.”  Lucy laughed bitterly.  “Bloody useless.  I asked my boyfriend, Jeff, if he could meet me after my lectures and go home with me, but…”  She trailed off with a sigh. 

“Ms. Ferrier,” said Sherlock, “I’m not saying I won’t take your case, but why not go to the police?  They’re a sorry lot, but they’re just as equipped to deal with a stalker as I am.”

Lucy shook her head.  “It’s not just that he’s stalking me, Mr. Holmes.  It’s…”  She paused, blew out a sigh.  “This sounds… mad, I know.  But when I mentioned the stalker to my father, he… he told me about his life before.  Before he met my mum and had me, when he lived in America.  He was part of some kind of cult.”

 _That_ seized Sherlock’s interest.  As Lucy Ferrier spoke, revealing the existence of a chilling, pseudo-religious cult that Mr. Ferrier had frequented in his youth, Sherlock and John listened, rapt.  Mr. Ferrier had joined the cult, unaware that one of its minor tenants entitled the cult leaders to take any member’s daughter as a wife.  Whether the leaders were already married or not was considered irrelevant. 

“So,” said John, “you think this stalker wants to marry you?”

Lucy shook her head with wide-eyed incredulity.  “I know how it sounds.  But these people sent my father death threats when he left the cult.  Part of the reason he moved to England was to get away from them.”

“You were born after he broke with the cult,” noted Sherlock. 

“Father says that makes no difference to them,” said Lucy.  “They must have found him and realized he’d had me.”

Sherlock turned to John, grinning.  “A _cult_ , John!  This will be delightful!”

Looking back on that day, Sherlock feels shame wash through his throat like acid.  He and John had investigated the cult – pretentiously named _Domivir –_ for scarcely two days before Lucy Ferrier missed a scheduled meeting with them.  She had planned to introduce them to her boyfriend, Jeff.  Sherlock and John had been waiting for an hour with no word from her when a knock thundered against the door of 221B. 

John opened the door to a burly young man.  His shoulders rose and fell as he panted; sweat dampened his brow.  His eyes darted past John to Sherlock, who stood a few paces away. 

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he gasped.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the boy.  “Yes.  And you must be Jeff.”

“I am,” said Jeff.  He gulped in a breath and croaked, “They’ve taken her.  They’ve taken Lucy.”

The five days after that were charged with a tension like electricity, as if a thunderstorm was rolling over the land with drowning rains and scorching lightning, decimating everything in its path.  If Sherlock couldn’t find Lucy – if he _failed_ – the consequences would be disastrous.  Sherlock was no stranger to death, but this felt… different, somehow.  Lucy Ferrier had come to him for help.  She had trusted him, and now she was gone. 

It’s the evening of the sixth day since Lucy was taken, and Sherlock is beginning to feel his stamina crumble.  In the past week, he has had perhaps ten hours of sleep, and fitful sleep at that.  He can’t remember when he last ate – his neglected stomach stopped grumbling days ago, though it besieges him with shooting pains that wake him from his sporadic naps.  Everything feels colder than usual, and a constant trembling has taken up residence in his limbs.  Even mundane tasks like holding a pipette or composing a text have become clumsy trials.  His temper is shorter than ever. 

“You need to eat something, love,” says John, taking a seat beside him on the sofa.  On the table before them, the case file of Lucy’s disappearance is scattered in disarray.  “You’re running on fumes.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. 

“No,” says John, “you’re not.  Exhausting and starving yourself won’t help us find Lucy.”

“I know what I’m doing!” Sherlock snaps, glaring at him.  “I solved dozens of cases before you showed up and I’m perfectly capable of solving this one.”

Anger flashes across John’s face.  “Sherlock, I’m only trying to—”

“Well, don’t,” Sherlock spits.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John looks away, but not before Sherlock can see the hurt in his eyes.  Curling his fingers into a fist and tapping it against his knee, John nods.  “Right.  I’ll just.”  He stands.  “I’ll just leave you alone.”

The next day, Sherlock and the NSY find Lucy Ferrier.  Her body has been left in a skip down the street from her father’s flat. 

Sherlock arrives on the scene with John in tow.  Ducking under the police tape and weaving through a crowd of officers to find Donovan, Sherlock blinks as spots of white in his vision swim with the blaring police lights.  He can barely hear the chatter as they pass, the keening of Mr. Ferrier and Jeff as Hopkins tries to console them.

“…my daughter!  She was my _daughter_ …”

“Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Lucy…”

And there:  Donovan stands amidst a cluster of officers, barking orders and gesturing.  On the ground beside the skip, an officer crouches, adjusting his camera to take a picture of Lucy’s face.  A flash, and Sherlock looks away.  He doesn’t want to know how she was killed, how the days and hours and minutes and seconds leading to her death were spent.  The thought makes his knees shake. 

“Oi,” says Donovan, grabbing his attention.  Her hard expression falters as she takes in his appearance.  “Christ, you look like crap.  Go home; we’ve got this sorted.”

“I can still help,” Sherlock protests.  “I can tell you where to find—”

“Drebber and Stangerson?” Donovan cuts in.  “We know where they are.  CCTV caught them leaving the Tube at Paddington.  They matched Mr. Ferrier’s descriptions perfectly.  We’ve got officers on the way now.”

“I see,” says Sherlock. 

“I know it’s shocking, being shown up by actual police,” says Donovan.  Her smile falters.  “Now, seriously, clear out.  We’ll handle Drebber and Stangerson.  You don’t look like you’d be of much use to anybody right now.”

Sherlock is about to make a scathing retort when John takes his hand and nods to Donovan.  “Thank you.  We’ll be in touch.”

John half-leads, half-drags Sherlock away from the crime scene.  After digging his heels in for a few steps, Sherlock lets himself be led, feeling like all the strength has been scraped out of him with a blunt blade.  He is hollow, his mind fixed on the image of Lucy’s cold, pale face, her eyes wide and unseeing.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is soft but firm.  “Sherlock, the cab.”

Sherlock blinks and registers the cab waiting for them at the curb.  “Oh.”

“Come on.”   

The ride back to Baker Street passes in a haze.  Sherlock stares out the window without seeing the passing buildings, the thousands of people milling about, the chaos of the city he loves so dearly.  Beside him, John is as silent and still as stone. 

The cab slows to a halt and John pays the fare without a word.  Opening the door, he crosses around the end of the cab and opens the door for Sherlock.  He offers a hand and Sherlock takes it, rocking back on his heels as his low blood pressure fails to accommodate the sudden motion.  John winds an arm around his waist and leads him to the door of 221, into the front corridor, and up the stairs.  With each step, Sherlock feels his energy ebb, like air leaking from a punctured balloon.  Wheezing and squealing as he crumples.

John leads Sherlock to the sofa and sits him down.  “Wait here.”  With that, he disappears into the kitchen, sock-clad feed soundless against the tile.  Sherlock lists forward and rests his elbows on his knees.  Bites his lip.

“Here we are,” says John an indeterminate amount of time later.  He emerges into the sitting room with a steaming bowl clasped between his palms.  Gingerly, he sits beside Sherlock and nudges the bowl onto his lap.  Sherlock’s hands close mechanically around the ceramic.  His eyes close as warmth seeps into his palms. 

“Sherlock,” says John, quietly.  “Sherlock.  It’s for eating, love.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he winces, nearly disrupting the bowl.  But John reaches out to stop soup from sloshing all over Sherlock’s lap.  He hands Sherlock a spoon. 

“Can you manage it?”

Though he can hear no condescension in John’s voice, Sherlock’s hackles rise.  “Obviously.  I’m not a child.”

John looks at him.  It’s a steady, impassive look, without anger or reproach.  Once, such a look would have infuriated Sherlock – he would have seen it as a challenge, the unspoken version of a gauntlet thrown.  _I’m not going to dignify you with a response._

But now – after almost two years of loving John, of sharing his bed, and after a week of sprinting to save a girl’s life, only to stumble and fall – Sherlock can’t find it in himself to be cross.  He’s too tired and too miserable.  He lifts the spoon with trembling fingers, dips it into the bowl.  Chicken noodle – simple, light, and comforting. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles.  “And… I’m sorry.”

A smile flickers across John’s face and fades.  He looks exhausted, Sherlock realizes.  Dark shadows hang under his eyes and two days’ growth of stubble shade into the hollows of his face.  He’s lost two—no, three pounds running around after Sherlock, neglecting to feed himself. 

_You don’t know what you’re talking about._

“I’ve hurt you,” says Sherlock. 

“Um.”  John shifts in his seat.  “A little.  But I understand.  You were trying to save Lucy.”

“I failed,” Sherlock says, “but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.  It’s unacceptable.”

“Sherlock, we’ve had a terrible week,” says John.  “Let’s just agree on that and… forgive each other, yeah?”

Sherlock wants to argue, but he’s exhausted, and the soup is warm against his palms.  He eats another spoonful and nods. 

Later, John helps Sherlock into bed, divesting him of his clothes with a sort of reverential silence.  Sherlock lets himself be undressed; lets himself be cared for.  John hands him a t-shirt and sweatpants.  He sets to undressing himself, finds a t-shirt and a pair of boxers.  Turns off the light and closes the door.  They slip into bed, gravitating toward each other like two valence electrons.  Their faces are inches apart, brushing each other with quiet huffs of breath.  John reaches into the slim gap between them; Sherlock grips his hands, fingers intertwined. 

“You said we should forgive each other,” Sherlock murmurs into the dark.

“Yeah.”

“Why do you need to be forgiven?”

A pause.  Sherlock’s eyes are adjusting to the dark: he sees John blink, lick his lips.  Sigh.

“I failed too, Sherlock.”  He says it like a confession.

“How?  It isn’t your fault Lucy is…”  He all but chokes on the word.

“No,” says John, “and it isn’t your fault, either.  But I still feel guilty.  I still feel like… I dunno, like I could have done something differently.  Saved her somehow.  If I’d only been quicker, or, or cleverer, or—more like you.”

“I’m me,” says Sherlock, “and I couldn’t save her.”

“We both feel like we failed her,” says John.  His fingers tighten around Sherlock’s.  Valence electrons.  Alone, they spin, unmoored in a tumultuous world.  Together, they have a bond.  “I think… I think, for a while, neither of us will be able to completely forgive ourselves.  So, we have to forgive each other instead.”

Sherlock nestles close, pressing his face to the curve of John’s throat.  He can feel John’s heartbeat against his cheek, hear the susurrus _in-out, in-out_ of his breathing.  “It never used to be like this,” he says, voice breaking.

“Like what, love?” John’s voice rumbles through his chest. 

“Never used to hurt like this.  When I couldn’t solve a case, I was… angry because I’d been bested, but never…”

“Sad?”

“Lost.”

“Sherlock.”  John draws back, tipping up Sherlock’s chin so they’re looking each other in the eye.  “I know you better than anybody, remember?  And I don’t believe that you were never sad for a victim before.  I think you were better at burying your feelings.  Hiding them from yourself.”

“And now?”

“Now… now, I think your walls are coming down.  You’re letting yourself feel more.”

Sherlock swallows past a lump in his throat.  “I hate it.  It makes me weak.”

“It makes you human.”  John dips his head, kisses Sherlock gently, lingeringly.  “The most human human being I’ve ever known.”

 

+1

 

Sherlock is treating a plate of mouse epithelial cells with cetuximab when John bustles through the door of 221B, preceding his greeting with a guttural cough.  Lowering the pipette, Sherlock studies John and pronounces, “You’re ill.”

“I am not,” says John, a trifle petulantly.  “Just got a little scratch in my throat.  It’s been a long day.”

“The flu is making its way through the clinic,” says Sherlock.  “You’ve been working there for the past three days, so chances are you were exposed long before now.  Even you are not immune, _doctor_.”

“Shut up,” John grouses.  “I’m perfectly fine.  Call Lestrade, see if he’s got anything on.  I’m ready for a case.  Absolutely in the pink of health.”

“Right,” says Sherlock, eyeing him dubiously.  John sheds his jacket, hangs it on its peg, and toes off his shoes.  He crosses the room and comes to Sherlock’s side, dismissing the plate of cells with rolled eyes and leaning over to kiss Sherlock. 

Sherlock turns away with a grimace.  “No.”

“What?”  John draws back, affronted.  “Why not?”

“You know perfectly well why not.  Forgive me for exercising a little caution.”

Scowling, John turns and stomps toward the bedroom, tossing his keys on the table with a jingle.  “I am _not_ ill!”

Humming vaguely, Sherlock turns back to his experiment.  The time points are critical – if he gets distracted, he’ll have to split the cells and set up the experiment all over again.  He unscrews the cap of a fifty-millimeter conical with one hand, dips the pipette in, and draws up the drug.

The following hours are a time course of a different kind.  At hour one, John is banging about the flat, determined to demonstrate his robust health by tapping away at his laptop, offering to cook an elaborate dinner, and inviting Sherlock on a walk around Regent’s Park. 

At hour four, John is blinking drowsily as he studies an article on surgical treatment of liver lacerations.  It’s approaching ten o’clock.  When he announces he’s going to bed, Sherlock grunts and dismisses him with a wave of his hand, too intent on his cells to pay John’s grumbling any mind.  Two hours later, Sherlock joins him, relieved to find John asleep.  John gives a watery sniff as Sherlock settles in beside him. 

At hour twelve, Sherlock is jolted awake by an explosive cough.  John hacks and clears his throat with a sound like a clogged drainpipe.  Sherlock sits up and reaches for the lamp on the nightstand.  Its warm glow fills the room, bathing them in orange light.  Cringing away from the glow, John groans and coughs into his elbow.  His eyes are streaming and phlegm is smeared across his face. 

“M’fine,” he says in a garbled voice. 

“Clearly you aren’t,” says Sherlock.  “I must say, John, the old adage of ‘doctors make the worst patients’ suits you.  Quite cliché.”

John glowers at him.  “Shut…”  And then his eyes are widening and he’s stumbling out of the bed, legs tangling in the duvet in his haste.  He hops, extricating himself and dashing out the bedroom door and into the loo.  A terrible retching sound follows and Sherlock throws back the duvet and follows. 

He finds John on his knees in front of the toilet, forearms braced against the seat as he shakes and groans.  Memories float to the surface of his mind, acidic and sharp:  John’s hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing a soothing circle.  Sherlock mimics the action now, bending forward and running his palm down John’s shoulder.  Sweat has soaked through John’s shirt; Sherlock’s palm comes away cold and clammy. 

John rests his cheek against the toilet seat, panting.  “I… I may be a little peaky.”

Sherlock scoffs.  “Stop being ridiculous and wait here.”

Before John can reply, Sherlock straightens and rounds on his heel, stalking toward the kitchen.  He rifles through the cupboards, finds a glass and a packet of pills, and returns to the loo with both in hand.  Fills the glass from the tap and hands it to John.

“Don’t drink it all yet,” says Sherlock, popping one pill out of the foil casing.  John pauses in his voracious chugging and stares at him.  “Here.”

“Oh.”  John takes the pill, sets it on his tongue, and chases it down with a gulp of water.  “Ta.”

“Should help with the coughing and…”  Sherlock waves at John’s face.  “…the dripping.”

“Yes, thank you,” says John, but he offers Sherlock a feeble smile.

  They spend a few more minutes in the loo while John trembles and grimaces, spitting a string of bile into the toilet bowl.  He takes the scrap of loo roll paper Sherlock offers, wipes his face, and gargles mouthwash before he deems himself fit to leave.  Sherlock bids him return to the bedroom and, once he’s ensured John is securely tucked in, makes another detour to the kitchen. 

John laughs weakly when Sherlock returns, their mop bucket in one hand and a sleeve of Delser Crackers in the other.  In the crook of his arm, Sherlock has tucked a bottle of ginger ale.  He sets down the bucket beside the bed, sets the bottle on the nightstand, and rips open the sleeve of crackers with his teeth. 

“Didn’t know you knew where the mop was,” says John, quirking an eyebrow at the bucket. 

“I’m a man of many surprises,” Sherlock drawls.  He sets the crackers on the nightstand beside the bottle of ginger ale and sits on the edge of the bed. 

“You know this means you’ll actually have to help me clean from now on,” John says. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  Have a cracker.”

As John obligingly nibbles on a Delser Cracker, Sherlock fills the now-empty glass with ginger ale.  He is watching bubbles fizz and pop against the glass when John says, “You’re a marvel, you know that?”

“Hm?”  Sherlock hands him the glass, bemused.  “Yes, of course.  You’ve said so numerous times.”

John chuckles, finishes off the first cracker.  “Yes, well.  You will always amaze me.”

The blunt fondness in his tone catches Sherlock off-guard.  It’s a bit ridiculous that John can disarm him so easily – they’ve been together for nearly three years, after all.  They’ve seen the best and the worst of each other.  Their relationship has weathered Sherlock’s blackest moods and John’s repressed anger.  They’ve learned to talk to each other, to _confide._  

But, as always, John has an uncanny knack for slipping through Sherlock’s defenses.  John says Sherlock will always amaze him, but Sherlock thinks he’s got it the wrong way ‘round. 

“I don’t see how I’m being so amazing this time,” he says, trying for levity.  “There’s nothing special about Delser Crackers.  You can find them at any Sainsbury’s.”

John takes a tentative sip of ginger ale.  “Not what I meant, love.  If I’d been ill like this two years ago, d’you think you’d have lifted a finger to help me?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock without hesitation.

John is quiet for a moment, his expression fading from fond to pained.  The look is gone a second later, but regret lodges in Sherlock’s heart like thorns.  They’ve spoken about Mary, about Sherlock loving John long before they became a couple.  Sherlock had died for John before he’d gone and married Mary.  Two years ago, he would have done anything humanly possible for John Watson. 

And John, being John, knows what Sherlock is thinking without a word spoken.  He reaches for Sherlock’s hand, clasped on his lap, and pauses.  Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes the proffered hand, trying not to think about phlegm or the clogged drainpipe sound or the standard incubation period of influenza.  Their fingers twine and press, and it’s nice, it’s better than nice.  It’s love.

“I think,” says John, “I want to be amazed by you forever.”

 

-

 

The future holds a register’s office.  A pair of signatures.  Vows exchanged.  Matching rings that clink together when they hold hands.  A lifetime of amazement together.

Presently, they lie together in the bed, fingers interlocked, unadorned but full of promise.  Sherlock’s head is propped against John’s, heedless of the threat of contagion.  He can feel the fever warming John’s hairline, bleeding into his skin.  Turning, he brushes a kiss against John’s temple.  His lips burn to the touch. 


End file.
